


Names of Light

by klytaemnestra (klytae)



Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [3]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klytae/pseuds/klytaemnestra
Summary: If he is to sell the lie he has told Veld he must make them both believe it.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng, Tseng (Compilation of FFVII)/Original Character(s)
Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915873
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	Names of Light

**Author's Note:**

> All additional names are taken from the Final Fantasy compendium. Cyr is the unofficial fandom name of Martial Arts Female from Before Crisis back when the Gunshot Romance translations were the only access most Western fans had to the game. I still use it 16 years later.

Rufus learns that having a Turk in his bed is as advantageous as having one as your ally. He does not require Tseng’s loyalty, but knows he has a certain control over him. It’s the simplest thing when Tseng’s utterly cockstruck, and as he looks at him on the floor, shuddering, and gasping in the aftermath of Rufus giving him a blow job that can only be described as mindblowing, he knows that he could ask anything of him in that moment. He crawls across Tseng, long legs straddling slim hips, his own cock hard and straining against his trousers, and brushes his lips against his lover’s, voice low, conspiratorial as he sighs, ‘You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?’

Tseng looks up at him with lust blown eyes, swallows once, and nods.

‘Lie for me.’ He presses a kiss to those parted lips, blunt nails digging into Tseng’s shoulder sharp enough to make him hiss. ‘Kill for me.’ Another kiss as he begins to scratch. ‘Die for me.’ Tseng will have bloody furrows in the morning, a reminder of just what he is, who he is, and what Rufus Shinra may do to him when they’re together like this.

Gloved hands settle at his waist. ‘You need to be held down and fucked.’

‘You’d like that. To fuck me. You think that gives you control.’ Rufus bites him hard enough that they both taste the metallic tang of blood, and when a hand shoots up to grasp at his throat, he leans into it and moans.

‘I know it does.’

Rufus laughs when he tightens his grip. ‘Do you now, Tseng of the Turks?’ He grinds his ass down against him. If Tseng intends to make good on that threat, he’s got time enough before he’s ready for a second bout, and when Tseng reaches his free hand to grope at Rufus’ crotch, he swats him away. Rufus rises from his spot on the floor, and moves across the living space to pluck a joint from a gilded cigarette case. The lighter clicks twice in his hand. He takes a long drag from it, light eyes intent on the skyline beyond. ‘You want a hit?’

Tseng reaches out a hand, dark eyes watching as Rufus, instead, straddles him once more, the joint burning bright for a moment as Rufus takes a slow inhale, and closes his mouth over Tseng’s to breath smoke into his lungs. He settles back on his hands as Tseng exhales.

‘You’re a terrible influence, Rufus Shinra.’

‘Oh, I aim to be the very, very worst.’ He reclines then, backwards, head cradled between Tseng’s shins as the joint smoulders, smoke curling in little tendrils around them. When he speaks again, his voice is heavy with desire. ‘Do you know what I’m thinking about right now?’

‘Not the slightest, Sir.’

‘Your perfect cock.’

Tseng laughs.

‘I’m also thinking of what you’d look like on mine.’

‘You really need it don’t you.’

There’s a rustle of clothing, the soft metallic purr of a zipper, before slender fingers clamp down around Tseng’s wrist. ‘Not yet.’ Rufus pushes himself upright, and leans in close to allow Tseng to take a hit. He’s so hard it’s difficult to focus, thinks of what it might feel like to slide between those thighs, how tight Tseng would be. He withdraws his cock, hands moving to divest Tseng of those perfectly tailored slacks, when Tseng abruptly shifts, and he finds himself splayed out on his back, his lover’s full weight suddenly bearing down on him.

‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’ Rufus sounds indignant.

‘You’re becoming a bit too adventurous, Sir.’

‘You’d like me inside.’

‘I suspect I might, but it’s best if we keep some set boundaries.’ He looks so very serious, that for a moment Rufus feels his pulse quicken, as if he’s finally awakened the killer, and then Tseng cracks a smile.

‘Bastard.’ He’s still pinned there, near immobilized, cock straining up against Tseng’s bare torso. Tseng dips his head to capture Rufus’ mouth with his own. He tastes like smoke, and weed, and when he slides his tongue against Rufus’, it feels like getting high again. His head buzzes pleasantly, Tseng caressing his lips, jawline, the hollow of his throat, and as Tseng’s hand closes around his cock this time, he does not protest, instead he settles into the touch with a soft moan.

Tseng’s lips brush against the shell of his ear, ‘Do you still want to fuck me, Sir?’

‘Yes.’ Rufus sighs, arching into the touch, envisioning the way Tseng would look straddling him.

‘How badly?’ Tseng sweeps his thumb over the head, then back downward till he’s moaning. Rufus looks up as Tseng peels away one leather glove with his teeth, bare fingers playing at the seam of his lover’s lips teasingly. Rufus draws them into his mouth, tongue curling around each digit, sucking on them up to the knuckle, then further still until Tseng’s nails brush shallowly against the back of his throat. Rufus makes a soft sound of protest when he withdraws, only to gasp as he feels one slick finger slide inside. ‘You’ll never last long enough.’

Rufus can’t disagree. He’s near delirious with want, the chemicals running through his bloodstream only heightening his need for release as Tseng begins to thrust into him with his fingers, eliciting soft moans.

Rufus lays there beneath him, lip bitten between teeth, panting, hips rocking upwards into Tseng’s hand as he clenches around the fingers in his ass. It’s not as good as Tseng’s cock up there, that perfect cock that fits him so well, making him a pleading mess, but he’s as skilled with his fingers as he is with his cock, or his tongue, and when Tseng brushes against his prostate, he cries out, nails digging into Tseng’s shoulders as he holds on and lets his lover work him toward completion. A few well timed thrusts, and a hand furiously stroking him brings him to his release, back arched, hips rocking up into the warmth of his touch, imagining him split open on him, riding him, the way it would feel to cum inside of Tseng, how well he’d clench him, and lets out a harsh cry as he spills himself all over Tseng’s hand and chest. Tseng rocks his fingers up against that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside him a few more times, eking out whatever last shockwaves of pleasure he may, and when Rufus opens his eyes, he basks in the sight of Tseng there above him, dark hair mussed, brow damp with exertion, and pulls him down to hold him close until his pulse settles. And when he speaks again, he announces. ‘I want to go out into the city.’

‘Sir?’

‘Let’s go out, I’m starving.’

The streets bustling in the late evening as green tinged darkness settles over the city. Sector 8 is a favourite for nightlife, speakeasies and jazz clubs, theatres and fine dining. It’s one of the areas of the city where Rufus Shinra can go out and be seen without much hassle from the public aside from the occasional paparazzi. The upper echelon who frequent the same venues and establishments never dare to lower themselves to making a scene in his presence, though he notices the looks. Dressed in the latest avant garde high fashion, his Turk a respectful step behind, and the beautiful, vivacious Indra Vlondett at his side, he makes a striking figure on the illuminated streets.

The place Rufus has selected is more club than restaurant, a small orchestra playing Midgarian favourites as couples sway and move about the dance floor. There’s a private table with a small placard marked ‘reserved’ set just away from the crowd. Rufus helps Indra into her seat, before settling down beside her. It’s not protocol for Tseng to join him, but to hell with protocol. They don’t sit beside one another, that simply would not do, but when Rufus offers him a soft smile from across the table, Tseng’s eyes soften.

Indra is already calling for champagne, two bottles on ice, and a service of caviar, when a lovely redhead enters Rufus’ peripheral vision. She makes a way toward their table, slim form bedecked in attire that’s not quite the finery he’s accustomed to. He’s seen her before with Indra. Her girlfriend, the one from the slums. Sector … 5, 7. Rufus cannot quite recall as she leans in to give Indra a small kiss on the cheek.

‘I’m sure you remember Farrell Harvey.’ Indra continues with a rather dramatic wave of her hand. ‘And I know this man needs no introductions.’

Rufus extends his hand to take her’s. ‘A pleasure to see you again, Miss Harvey.’

Indra smiles a little then, dark eyes darting to where Tseng sits. ‘And this my love is dear Rufus’ lover.’

‘We’re not.’

‘Oh, don’t be coy darling. I know. I can tell. You’re much more relaxed.’ She laughs then, and pulls Farrell close. ‘It’s our secret.’

Tseng takes Farrell’s hand, as well, giving a small respectful nod of his head, ‘Very nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Harvey.’ Unperturbed as ever.

The champagne arrives moments later, Indra proposing a toast to the Future of Shinra. Her dark eyes flit toward her girlfriend, and then back to Rufus’, before finally settling on Tseng’s. She smiles just a little as she lifts the champagne to her lips.

It’s late when the conversation turns from the usual frivolities to Farrell’s activism. She’s attending a university topside on a scholarship and pursuing a Doctorate in mako research. ‘You should come work for my father.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t see eye to eye with your father’s corporation.’ And Rufus Shinra finds himself more than vaguely intrigued.

It’s late when they return to the tower, Rufus pleasantly tipsy, half leaning against Tseng who deposits him on the bed and proceeds to help him undress, hands moving with a certain professionalism, as if he had not mere hours before held Rufus down until he came all over himself. Rufus’ lips are persuasive, his tone hushed, voice slightly slurred as Tseng helps him into his robe. ‘Stay with me.’

‘It’s nearly dawn, Sir.’ The horizon already tinged with pale streaks. ‘You should rest.’ Tseng takes in Rufus, his slim frame in a lazy sprawl across the crisp bedsheets as he says something about being cold. Thinks to how  _ he _ should rest. It’s been days since a proper night’s sleep, late night duties, or whatever this is between them keeping him awake. He rarely stays the night, and never until dawn. Rufus is a notorious insomniac, but it would raise too many questions were he to be seen slipping from his apartment after sunrise. He watches as Rufus’ fingers creep along the bedding, and wonders what it might feel like to have a relationship that might afford them the luxury of being together as lovers should. Rufus has promised him Midgar, a ridiculous fancy to think someone as beautiful and powerful as he could find fulfillment in this clandestine affair conducted in the shadows.

‘I think Indra likes you.’ Rufus laughs as he stretches out across the bed.

‘Sir?’

‘She likes to fuck men. Sometimes.’

Tseng chooses to ignore whatever Rufus is going on about, the things his spoiled rich friends get up to is none of his concern.

Rufus sighs his name once, dark lashes fluttering close. Whatever alcohol he’s consumed pulling him into quiet unconsciousness. Tseng adjusts the covers around his shoulders with an uncommon tenderness, hand lingering at his cheek for the briefest of moments as he leans down to press a kiss between those perfectly arched brows.

The sun is an orange blaze set against the murky green clouds of dawn by the time Tseng returns home to his flat in Sector 8. Sparsely decorated, tastefully so, lacquered wood and sleek lines, but very few personal touches. Much of his life is spent within the glass walls of the Shinra building, or in alleyways, running surveillance on sleazy establishments, stakeouts within expensive hotels. The low bed, with its dark sheets, has not been slept in for days. Most nights, Tseng returns home very late, showers, and finds some scant sleep reclining across his living room sofa. Perhaps it would be more convenient to remain within his charge’s living space, but for the time being that is a line he’s unsure he wishes to cross. Fucking Rufus Shinra is instinctual. The young man is beyond attractive, and he’s becoming a very adept lover, his sheer excitement and desire compensating for whatever he lacks in experience. Tseng feels little in the way of remorse when Rufus wants it so badly, the physical need to find release in one another’s bodies is easy, uncomplicated. And it must remain as such. There’s no room for emotion, not between people such as they.

But he does feel the twinge of something more, a low warmth and ache within himself when he looks at Rufus Shinra, unaware of the true power he wields, the irritable, insufferable boy who still offers to make him terrible coffee, and likes to brush their fingertips together in the upper halls of the Shinra building when he thinks no one else is looking. The way he speaks of Midgar, the promises of how he will rule it with his Turk at his side almost makes Tseng want to believe it.

It is late in the morning when he returns to the tower, called into the office by Veld. The Director of the Department of Administrative Research is seated at his desk when Tseng arrives, clears his throat once in dismissal of the three other Turks present, and gestures for Tseng to come in. They are not one for meetings, Veld preferring a rather hands off approach to those beneath him, but as he pulls off his glasses and regards Tseng with a somewhat withering look, he feels rather like an insect pinned to a card, or one of those samples beneath Hojo’s microscope.

‘Sir?’ He straightens ever so slightly, dark eyes intently set on the tense line of Veld’s shoulders.

‘I wanted to ask how things were developing with the President’s son.’

Yes, that. Where to begin, truly?

‘Are you making progress?’

‘Yes.’ It is not an untruth, Tseng is making significant headway with Rufus Shinra. He is as trusting as he will allow himself to be.

‘And he doesn’t suspect?’

‘No.’ Rufus is utterly infatuated, not to the extent that he is careless--to even suggest such is near unthinkable, every aspect of Rufus Shinra’s life is so carefully guarded and controlled, each kiss calculated, and those breathless words spoken of Midgar, of  _ them _ , they have no place here. Words between lovers. He looks to his gloved hands then, neatly folded in front of him. Lovers. He considers what that word holds beyond the physical need to be tangled in one another’s embrace. The sound of his name spoken once breaks him from his reverie, he meets Veld’s stare. ‘No, he doesn’t suspect.’

Veld offers him the barest of nods, makes a quick scratching motion with his pen as if keeping notes.

‘There is talk.’

‘Sir?’

‘One of our own saw you leaving the President’s son’s rooms late.  _ Too _ late.’

A cold rage flares within him momentarily then dies. What had Veld expected? Ordering him to watch Rufus Shinra, subtly manipulating him, toying with his emotions. ‘It’s nothing.’

Veld goes silent for a long pause, the tap of his pen against the desk the only sound between them. He makes a disapproving noise. ‘Your personal affairs are your own. I don’t suppose I need to tell you how very dangerous your position is if you’re sleeping with him.’

No, Veld does not. Tseng has had this conversation with himself many times over, weighing the consequences of fucking President Shinra’s only legitimate son. He will not deny it, that he is having an affair, or  _ whatever _ this is with him. ‘It’s nothing.’ Tseng thinks of Rufus there in the darkness, lips sweet against his own, the laughter, and quiet intimacy he shows. ‘He just likes to be fucked.’ There is a certain vulgarity to it when the words leave his lips, reducing this thing between them as if nothing more than a spoiled brat following his own father’s path to debauchery.

Veld gives him a look that suggests he is unsurprised.

‘End it.’

‘Is that an order?’

‘Does it need to be?’

The elevator ride up to the Executive Suite is uncommonly long. Veld’s words echoing. His own dismissal filling him with an unfamiliar pang, guilt. Thinks to how very little the young man whose bed he’s been sharing these long months knows. He finds Rufus in the kitchen, perhaps a bit hungover from the previous night’s indiscretions. His eyes are shadowed, slender fingers wrapped around a crystal glass filled with two egg yolks, and a dash of chili.

‘You’re late.’ Rufus comments before downing the mixture.

‘I had a meeting with Veld, Sir.’ 

‘And what did Veld want?’ He winces.

Tseng offers Rufus two painkillers, surely he must know by now what champagne does to his head. ‘He wanted to see how I was getting along. With you.’

Rufus makes a soft sound low in his throat before lowering his head to the cool marble countertop. ‘Is it standard that Turks get along with those they’re sent to spy on?’

No. But this is so much more complicated than simply that. Tseng’s hands find the nape of Rufus’ neck, kneading along the tension there, eliciting a groan and a soft request for more. ‘I don’t think I’m very good at spying on you. What secrets could I disclose?’

‘That I get high and ask you to fuck me.’ There’s a hint of amusement in his tone. Tseng thinks of the actual treachery that slips from Rufus’ lips when they are alone together. It is treason, the things he shares with Tseng. The very thing he should report back to Veld.

'Who is Veld to care?' Rufus makes a pained noise when Tseng’s thumb presses too hard against a vertebra. 'It's not like he and my old man see eye to eye.'

While Rufus insists that within these walls he is free to speak his mind free of duty or reprimand, the words give Tseng pause. 'It's not my place to speculate, Sir.'

He will think later to those words. Rufus is cunning, observant. Veld a fool to not simply come to the young heir. But then, he knows the truth behind Veld’s schemes. To make a Shinra who is malleable, one under utter control of the Turks, giving Veld the power and security to do as he wishes within the corporation lest they be all brought to ruin. He cannot shake the lingering guilt as Rufus lounges stretched across the sofa, reading some lurid erotica aloud as the sun makes a path low across the horizon. A best seller, though he has to stifle his laughter after every fifth paragraph.

'This is supposed to turn me on?' He asks after a while, shifting to cast a glance to where Tseng is seated in the corner. 'It's positively ghastly prose.  _ Member _ , Tseng. Have you ever thought of referring to my cock as a  _ member _ ?'

'I cannot say that I have.'

The smile he flashes him is rather wicked. 'Tell me how you would describe me. Sex with me.' Tseng is technically still on duty, but the way Rufus settles just so, hand sliding lower along the waistband of his trousers, Tseng is filled with a certain longing.

'I'm not sure if now--'

The sound he makes suggests he's bored.

'You are very beautiful, Sir.'

There's a laugh. The request to be called by name.

'Rufus.' Tseng corrects. He inhales once and pictures his lover as he often finds him, silhouetted against the skyline, the way the mako lit darkness sets his skin nearly alight in shades of the palest alabaster. 'You are intoxicating, a bit dangerous.' There's the rustle of fabric, the metallic purr of a zipper. 'You often taste of cognac, bitter.' He speaks of his lips, the soft curve of them, the line of his jaw, and slope of his neck. The moan that slides from Rufus’ lips sends a jolt of desire low in his groin, watches the way he touches himself languidly. 

'Go on.'

'The feel of being inside that perfect ass.' There's another moan, a sigh. From this vantage point Rufus’ movements are all but obscured. 'You need to be tied up and held down.' His gloved hands wrapped around that slender neck, Rufus defiant, challenging. Nails sharp on his shoulders. 'Fucked until you're delirious.'

Rufus' voice is strained, breathless. 'Would you like to fuck me?'

It is all the invitation needed. Protocol be damned. Tseng is already shedding his jacket in a neat drape over a plush armchair, tie loosened, belt meeting the hard floor with a muffled clank. He has another meeting this evening, a short debrief over a mission Reno has still not checked in with, so they must practice some caution as crisp trousers are slid downward, leather boots kicked off. Rufus' hand flutters along the hem of his turtleneck, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth flesh there, the soft dusting of light hairs that trail lower to what Tseng knows is a neat patch of perfectly groomed curls, the shape of his cock straining as he presses his hand against it with a hiss. Tseng kneels before him on the sofa in nothing but his dress shirt as he begins to peel off leather gloves.

The word that slips from Rufus' lips is a plea, body arching upwards to assist Tseng in divesting him of his slacks. There's a gasp, warm hands firmly gripping the curve of Rufus' ass, before the wet heat of a tongue delving teasingly. The sound that tears itself from Rufus is a cry, a moan. For a man so unaccustomed to the most basic of affection it is nearly overwhelming in its intimacy. A finger slides inside, then another. Tseng murmurs something against his thigh and leans down once more, saliva mingling with lube.

The air leaves Rufus' lungs all at once, Tseng gliding in with a single movement, pushing deeper still as his lover's body yields to him. He looks to where their bodies are joined, Rufus' cock jutting upwards, flushed red, gleaming with precum, and begins to thrust. At this angle Rufus likes to lock his legs too tightly, but he enjoys the way his face falls apart, mouth parted, light eyes half lidded, as if Tseng cannot get deep enough. He tells him to relax, one hand smoothing along his calf in encouragement, and rocks forward more forcefully.

'Tell me.' Rufus sighs.

Tseng smiles, thrusts deep enough to elicit a cry. 'I've had others, but none like you.' Rufus is hardly the most skilled, Tseng often finding comfort in the company of sex workers, but few he's ever taken to bed are so thoroughly enraptured by him. A lack of experience perhaps, Rufus still a stranger to the many carnal vices one might suspect of a person in his privileged position. Tseng knows he was his first, it fills him both with a deep possessive need and type of pity, that he has never allowed himself the pleasures of another. Thinks how if Rufus wouldn't see it as an insult or, worse yet, a rejection, he would procure for him someone discreet & professional. Instead he's placed himself into a very precarious position, one in which he feels wholly disinclined to remove himself, and he must admit that he wants to be the only one who Rufus trusts. The only one who has him this way. There's a shift, Rufus suddenly braced against the cushions, ass high as Tseng thrusts back in to resume a brutal pace. There's no room for affection he tells himself. If he is to sell the lie he has told Veld he must make them both believe it. Rufus Shinra just likes to be fucked. Tseng's tie slides through his hands, silk against Rufus' throat. The deft movements of a killer. He drives hard into his lover, knowing well the angle coupled with this heightened danger will only do more to drive Rufus to a frenzied need. The tie that is looped around his neck tight enough to leave bruises, Tseng understands that he is no longer the only one in this relationship who is at risk. The President’s son so touch starved that he has made himself easy prey.

When it is over, he slumps forward against Rufus, and accepts that neither will ever be free of this thing between them.

Later as he walks the long hall back to Veld’s office, the memory of Rufus Shinra left on his body in an impressionist work of scratches and mottled bruising, he accepts how he doesn't want to be free.

Reno is in an inaffable mood. A mission gone awry, some minor dissidence from Sector 7. He and Rude had ended up in a bar when shots were fired. A dead lead, and an even more dead suspect. He knows what Tseng has been up to these long months, field work exchanged for glorified babysitting duty. He knows little of the President’s son, only that he seems out of touch, a trust fund kid with too much time, and not enough responsibility. Two years his senior, Tseng's age, but he knows Rufus might as well be little more than a spoiled child. Has seen him out, with that heiress his father has been hoping to set him up with, and the way they care for nothing but their own self enjoyment. He makes a sound of disapproval when Tseng mentions Rufus Shinra, casting Veld a baleful look. 

Far above in the Presidential office, Rufus meets with his father. A routine visit, if not quite a social call. To keep tabs on the young heir's dealings, and whereabouts. Ever since he's returned from university having completed his formal studies, he has been somewhat impatient. Reno's assessment that he is one with too much time, and too little responsibility remains a bitter area of contention. There are no voices raised, Rufus having long since learned to control his rage.

Tseng passes him on his way out. Sees the splotch of crimson across his cheek. The President rarely struck his son, but there are times. Tseng says nothing even as he wishes to reach out to brush their hands together. 

Back in his penthouse, Rufus sits alone. Tseng having orders requiring him elsewhere this evening. Indra's voice echoes across the phone line as he paces about his rooms. She does not offer platitudes, even if she seems to understand, suggests instead they take a holiday in Costa. 'You've got that big beautiful villa that dear daddy never visits.'

Too many memories, Rufus knows. Memories of a time when his father was less cruel. 'You planning to bring friends?'

A laugh, then. 'Maybe. Would that be unwise?' She mentions Tseng, perhaps a bit teasingly.

'He's assigned to me.' She knows it's more than that. She who he first confessed that infatuation to.

In a dive bar in the Sector 7 slums, a knife blade grazes off Tseng's left shoulder, shallow enough the cut is superficial, the assailant taken down with a quick shock from a Shinra issue electro mag rod. Reno towers over the crumpled form, dark suit slightly disheveled from the altercation, and flashes Tseng his cockiest smile. 'You're out of practice. Kid's making you soft.' There's no vitriol in the statement, kid is just what Reno has taken to calling Rufus Shinra, ribs Tseng ever so as they haul their quarry in for questioning. If he suspects anything, he says nothing, and for that Tseng is grateful. The last thing he needs is another professional colleague speculating about his personal affairs.

It's late when they return, Reno escorts their suspect to a holding cell. There will be time enough for interrogations. Let Veld sort it out in the morning. The slash on Tseng's shoulder oozes blood slowly through his dress shirt. A trip to the infirmary isn't necessary, though Reno suggests he get it patched up, they have full cure materia and pills that will make him feel like he's been hit with an aero spell.

'What I need, Reno, is a drink, a long shower, and eight hours of sleep. Not necessarily in that order.'

He returns home a while later, plucks a bottle of bourbon from the bar. A hiss escapes him as he peels away his blood soaked shirt, balling it up, before tossing it in the waste bin. The cut stands in stark relief against the silvery scar near his collarbone, a wound received during his first kill, one that has led him here. How different might things be between him and Rufus had he not been injured the evening they'd agreed to meet? He can recall still the way Rufus looked that night at the party when he had stolen away. How for weeks the young Shinra heir had filled his thoughts when he was alone. A teenager's idle fancy, his hormones overriding reason. He'd gone drinking once he was discharged, found a pretty boy to kiss, and when his hands slipped into soft strands he pretended they were lighter, longer, errantly obscuring light eyes, and perfectly arched brows. Tseng accepts he's had it bad for a very long while, and now to have Rufus as he has, to know each line and curve and sharp jut of bone, to taste those lips, and his cock, to feel the ripple of muscles, the bite of his nails and teeth, he is a man obsessed. 

The buzz of his PHS breaks him from his reverie. The voice across the line is husky, remarking on how he's home early. A laugh, well early for him.

'Cyr.' He breathes her name.

She's in the neighbourhood, walking back from some speakeasy on Highwind, saw his light on. 'Thought I'd drop by for a nightcap. Haven't seen you much since Veld put you on Shinra Jr.'

Cyr does field work topside. With the face of a model, and the martial arts skills of some fighter down at the Corneo Cup. As deadly as she's beautiful. They've not worked a mission in eighteen months, and that had ended with his cock inside her ass while they fucked in some alleyway in Sector 2, and for the next 3 months on Wednesdays and Sundays they'd met up for a bout, to blow off steam, discuss work, the sex had been a release with no strings attached.

'You know the access code.'

It means nothing, never has, Tseng tells himself as he emerges from the shower a few minutes later, towel slung low around his hips, damp hair falling in waves about his shoulders. She comments on the wound, offers to patch it up. 'I've had worse.' She doesn't disagree, rattles the ice in her drink and asks him to make her another. She's still in her suit, though the tie has been lost, her designer boots kicked off by the door.

It doesn't take long before she's astride Tseng, hands on his cock. There are no words of affection between them though he finds her lovely, hands working at her bra to reveal a pair of modest breasts. Only the finest gil can buy, she teases as he mouths at one, tongue sweeping along a rosy nipple while his hand cups the other. Her voice is a raspy moan, body taut as she arches into his touch. Tseng finds himself face down on the sofa, Cyr buried to the hilt. The first time he found himself in this position was after a gala at the Midgar Grand where they were both running surveillance, she had pulled him into her room, ordered him to undress, hitched up her diaphanous gown, and pounded him from behind until he thought his legs might give out. It had become an exchange of trust in those months they'd fucked, on the nights when Tseng needed something more. He enjoys pussy just fine, soft breasts, and softer lips, supple curves, but a hard cock in his hands or mouth. He tries not to think of Rufus, how he's his own conundrum. In the public view the only legitimate son to his father, though his suits are cut to flatter his slender waist, his hair just a bit too perfect, in private he is something softer, wrapped in silken robes. Tseng knows little of Rufus' late mother outside of the famous pictures that still on occasion grace the cover of glossy magazines. Tributes to the late Theodora Shinra, her life in photos. What he does know is Rufus is very like her in looks, and he suspects mannerism. It's not a stretch to picture him in those smartly tailored suits, and berets, and little veiled cocktail hats. A particularly hard thrust from Cyr tears a cry from his lips.

'Daydreaming, Tseng?'

Yes. Thinking of the singular person that has the capacity to destroy his carefully controlled life. Even now, as Cyr fucks him until he's breathless, it is on his terms. A surrender to an equal, a comrade, and colleague. Her life bears little difference from his own, a past erased, for Shinra, for the Turks. Veld who plucked them from a life of want or mediocrity, fashioning them into killers, an existence operating in the shadows, with shiny pistols, and fast cars.

Later as they lie together he almost voices why they never made this a more permanent thing, instead he watches as Cyr slips away, and doesn't think to ask her to stay.

Rufus rises late, studies his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth. There's a purplish bruise along his cheekbone. Too dark to be masked by makeup. His father must have got him with his ring. A hideous gold thing, garish with the Shinra emblem intaglio. His family line not well bred enough to merit any true heirlooms. Rufus Shinra is nothing without his father's name, the brutality it promises, and the lies it sells the masses. The glass in his hand crashes against the tile floor in an explosion of shards. Later he'll tell the maid it slipped.

He receives a phone call just after eleven informing him that Tseng has taken a rare personal day. Veld’s secretary asks if he needs anything. He makes a sound of disdain, as if he could possibly want another Turk to keep him company like he's some bored child. Dropping the phone into its cradle, he considers Indra's words. A holiday in Costa. Her, and Miss Farrell, and  _ Tseng _ .

Veld is disapproving, a terse meeting if not quite a reprimand. Tseng sells it convincingly enough, afterall, isn't this what he wanted? Tseng to infiltrate the heir's inner circle, earn his trust, what does it matter if that closeness has led to him on occasion seeking out more.

'We've made him vulnerable.' He admits. Veld gives a look that suggests he's not incorrect.

'How was I to know the brat didn't have a string of lovers.' 

'He's very private in his affairs, Sir.' So very discreet it's a wonder he is his father's son. A man so notorious for his philandering that even the wife he had allegedly so loved had found him in the arms of a chorus girl not two weeks after their honeymoon. 'Perhaps his father is why he chooses to not take others into his bed.'

When he passes Cyr in the hall on his way to the rooftop, she says nothing.

Rufus is waiting for him, smartly dressed for travel, bags already stowed in the Shinra helicopter that will carry them to the sunny beaches Costa del Sol. 'Miss Vlondett will join us there.' He tells Tseng as Midgar falls away behind them, and settles into his seat to nap.

They're greeted by the grounds keeper. Rufus is halfway to the villa calling for drinks before his luggage has been collected. He retreats to the back veranda, a frosty glass of caipirissima in hand, while Tseng checks in with Veld.

Rufus opens his eyes to Tseng's shadow looming above him, wearing a rather indignant look on his face, as a blazer draped on a hanger dangles from gloved fingers. 'Do you like your gift?' Rufus smiles, eyes mischievous as he stares up from behind 50,000 gil designer sunglasses.

'What is this, Sir?

He makes a dismissive gesture.. 'You're very well dressed when Shinra tells you to, but I doubt you brought even a pair of swim shorts.' He shifts then, and takes in the sight of Tseng there in his suit. In terms of discretion, it simply will not do. 'I took the liberty of finding you something more …  _ informal _ .'

'Sir.'

'Oh please, I've had you in my bed for weeks, you think you're the only person trained to be observant.' Tseng knows it's better to concede, Rufus Shinra has a certain persuasiveness about him, and there are no further words exchanged on the matter. When he returns a while later, he’s bedecked in the latest in resort wear, not quite the avant-garde designs Rufus so adores, but a smartly tailored look of linen. Rufus looks on admiringly. ‘You must know how positively devastating you look.’ He reaches up, slender fingers catching in Tseng’s hair, and pulls him down into a brief kiss. ‘If you hadn’t only changed, I’d be eager to take it off you.’ Later, he thinks, once Indra has arrived, and they all settled. Then he’ll wrap his lips around that beautiful cock, but for now he is content to relax here in the mid-afternoon sun, and beckons for Tseng to sit with him. There’s a pitcher of sangria chairside, the crystal frosted in the heat of the day. He pours Tseng a glass. ‘I’ve never brought a lover here.’ He admits, lips curling around the curve of his wine glass. Tseng makes a soft sound of amusement. ‘What?’

‘What lovers, Sir?’ His voice is teasing, and for a moment Rufus feels the hot rush of blood in his cheeks, not out of any true embarrassment, only that Tseng is the only one to know the truth. How very closed off and guarded he has been,  _ before _ this. It seems now a bit of carelessness on his behalf, admitting to Tseng all those nights ago that what he lacks in experience, he compensates in want. Tseng hardly seems concerned with such, as long as Rufus is willing, he is content to be with him in every way they both desire.

There’s the soft scurry of a lizard underfoot as Rufus reclines once more. ‘My old man likes to tell this story of how my grandfather took him to a brothel on his sixteenth birthday. To  _ make a man _ out of him.’ A strange anecdote, no doubt. ‘I suppose he thought it would inspire me to find someone of my own. To  _ distract  _ me.’ He casts a glance to where Tseng is seated at his side, and dares not pry into that past. Whatever lovers Tseng has taken, Rufus cannot find the care to be jealous, only that he is here now. There are lips against his then, a tongue tasting of sugar, and red fruits, and wine. And when Tseng deepens their kiss further, he thinks of how perhaps there’s time yet, and slides his hands inside his trousers to touch him in a promise of later.

Indra arrives a few hours before sunset. Her father’s private escort leaving her in town. She telephones up to the house, saying she’ll be arriving alone. Miss Harvey won’t be over until the following morning, something with an incident between Sector 5 and 6. Tseng watches as the two banter together. Indra is unlike Rufus, so wholly in love with her position in the world that she feigns boredom with it. She withdraws a joint, lights it with a smile, and taking a long hit, offers it to Rufus. He declines, wanting to keep his head about him, but encourages Tseng. ‘I tell him to relax, he never does.’ Rufus insists emphatically. It is an uncommon thing to be here with Rufus Shinra, outside of Midgar, away from the prying eyes of both the President, and Veld.

Tseng considers Veld’s disapproval, the way he looked at Tseng for the first time in years as if he had disobeyed orders. He supposes he’ll have to draft an apology letter, knows Rufus must have some personalized stationery inside, only to think better of it, how that might truly set his Chief off.

‘I saw that car, darling.’ Indra comments around a puff of smoke. ‘That fancy prototype or whatever.’

‘It was my mother’s.’ A beautiful flat white coupe. The Coeurlregina Type-0, the fastest car on the Planet, at least at one time. A gift to her from his father.

‘You really should learn to drive that.’

They retire late, bottles of wine littered around them, Indra more than pleasantly high, as soft strains of acoustic guitar lilt about them. Rufus leans against Tseng, unbothered by the quiet familiarity between them here before his truest friend, as Indra reads their fortune. A trick she picked up from Farrell. Rufus looks up at her through half lidded eyes, before murmuring something to Tseng and quietly excusing himself. ‘Feel free to watch the sunrise. It’s supposed to be lovely.’

The two retreat inside, arms thrown about one another’s neck as they kiss. Rufus pulls him upstairs, off the landing into his room, and thrusts up against Tseng’s cock until they’re both spent. Here in Costa del Sol, there are few who care what the President’s son’s relationship is with his Turk. Rufus asks him to stay, and when Tseng does, he curls himself close, breathing in the way he smells of Rufus’ own expensive body wash, and how as he kisses Tseng, his lips taste of lavender and mint. There’s something more, sandalwood and spice, the soft scent of Tseng’s hair about his shoulders, Rufus sighs, contented, and drifts off to sleep.

Tseng wakes before the light of dawn. Disentangles himself from Rufus' embrace, arms and long slender legs locked possessively about him. He studies his lover in the shadows, the careless fall of his hair, lips parted ever so slightly, and lingers for a moment before sliding from the bed. He pulls on a pair of pyjama bottoms and quietly makes his way down to the beach. The sky is tinged with purple streaks of half-light, the sand a dusky grey. There's the skitter of a small crustacean to his right, and the cry of a gull. Tseng strips down, and wades out into the water, swimming past the waves breaking near the shoreline into the gentle calm. He stares up at the dimming starlight overhead.

Rufus is still asleep when he returns to the villa, half buried beneath the sheets, and looking so at peace he dare not disturb him, softly closes the door. He showers, dresses, and wanders the grounds, exotic blooms still glistening with morning dew, songbirds nesting in palms, a cacophony of nature unlike Midgar where the only wildlife are the many stray cats, and those pigeons Rude so adores.

The sun is high above by the time Indra's girlfriend sets down in Costa. The two go out sight-seeing, Farrell, having spent little time outside of Midgar, wishing to explore. Rufus waves them off as they depart, and suggests he and Tseng go find a place to drink away from the midday heat. Out of his suit, no one might suspect Tseng is Shinra, though there is a certain deadly air about him, and beneath the one of the many stylish new blazers Rufus so lavishly bestowed upon him, a loaded Quicksilver, slotted with materia, rests. Rufus had scoffed, insisting no one was foolish enough to make an attempt on his life here, but Tseng is as always cautious, better well prepared than to be caught off guard. Rufus notices how a few eyes linger, ‘I’d like to think they’re staring at me.’ A smile then as he reaches across the table to thread their fingers together. ‘I think it’s you.’

‘Are you trying to flatter or fluster me, Sir? Neither will work.’

‘No, I don’t suppose anything unnerves you, does it.’ Tseng does not look away, dark eyes filled with that same intensity he sees when Tseng is buried inside, or when he thinks there might be a threat, and knows the answer. 'It's easy for you, isn't it?'

'Sir?'

'The indifference.' Rufus studies his cocktail, the way the lime bobs above finely crushed ice. 'I don't see why you're with me. If it was money or power--' He laughs despite himself. 'The sex can't be that good.'

Tseng smiles then. 'How do you know the sex isn't  _ that _ good?'

They return home before sunset, Indra insisting they take an evening swim. Tseng says nothing, dark eyes watching the way Rufus moves. Farrell speaks of her work, protests outside the many reactors that power Midgar, they’re a small group in need of leadership, funding.

‘You should find yourself a name.’ Rufus suggests around the joint they share, smoke curling about as the last light of day fades into darkness.

She laughs, stretches out along the chaise. ‘What would you suggest?’

Rufus considers this for a while, and when nothing comes, he takes another hit. ‘It needs to be something powerful, unrelenting, like an act of the gods. Titan, or whoever.’ Who is he to care what Indra’s girlfriend gets up to if it causes his old man trouble, he will gladly entertain these activities. Protests are common in Midgar, often from those above the plate, with too much time, and enough gil to afford to take a day off to fling the occasional errant molotov cocktail at a Shinra armoured transport or hold signs emblazoned with accusations that Shinra is threatening the great condor population, and poisoning dolphins along Junon. Rufus makes donations in his name to wildlife organizations, a gesture of goodwill, and a bit of insolence against his father, to show the public that he is an animal lover, like his late mother, with all those guardhounds, and the odd coeurl to keep her company.

One day, when this is all his, he thinks. Looks to Tseng, and corrects.  _ Theirs _ . When it is theirs, he will make them allies with accolades, and non-profit standing, Shinra funding for the good of the Planet, bankroll and placate them with gil and prestige. And if they prove to have too much of a conscience to be bought, he is prepared to crush them.

Rufus is pleasantly high when he murmurs something against Tseng’s lips, and slips his tongue into his mouth. Tseng tastes of rum, the flavour heady, intoxicating. They kiss languidly in the darkness, before Rufus insists that he suck Tseng’s cock. There is a hesitation, Indra is entwined with her girlfriend nearby, both laughing softly while Farrell talks about the stars overhead.

‘Rufus.’ Tseng’s hands halt him.

‘Why do you care? No one else does.’

Tseng repeats his name again, tilts Rufus’s chin to meet his gaze. ‘Not here.’

As they slip away into the garden, the laughter fades until they are surrounded only by the cry of cicadas, the song of a nightingale perched in a citron tree. Rufus presses Tseng against an arbour, kisses him again, mouth trailing hot against the line of his lover’s jaw, enjoying the soft rasp of stubble there along his skin, and then drops to his knees. He’s pleased to find Tseng hard despite his earlier protests, and swallows him to the base. There’s a sigh, a moan, as Tseng’s fingers slip into his hair, hand cupping the base of his skull as he thrusts shallowly.

Rufus withdraws, presses a wet kiss to Tseng’s hipbone, and tells him how much he adores his cock. He can fuck him soon if they have the patience to make it back inside, how he’ll bend over and let him take him. Tseng cries out as Rufus closes his lips around his cock once more.

‘Stop.’

The word is ragged.

Rufus looks up at his lover.

Tseng tells him to stand, and when Rufus does, he’s pulled close. Tseng’s hand is on his cock in an instant, pressing the hard lengths together. ‘I don’t need to fuck you.’ His breath cascades hot against Rufus’ collarbone. ‘I just need to make you cum.’

Rufus shudders once, and lowers his head to rest upon Tseng’s shoulder, one hand stroking his lover, the other clinging to his bicep, as Rufus sighs out his desire. They move in unison, their soft sounds of pleasure lost to the buzz of insects, the distant crash of the waves on the shore, and when they cum, they hold one another tightly, unconcerned with the way they spill against the other.

They kiss gently. Rufus whispers something that sounds too much like  _ I love you. _

Tseng lies awake that night, tells himself that he is mistaken, looks at Rufus there in the pale moonlight, curled contently close, breath even, slim form barely concealed by the drape of bed sheets, and tells himself that he must be mistaken. Rufus Shinra cannot be in love--Tseng cannot allow him to be.

In the morning, he tells himself, once Rufus is sober, he’ll forget those words. He  _ must _ forget them. Downstairs he can hear the sound of one of the girls moving about, perhaps both, and gathering up his robe, slips away from the warm bed, and ventures out onto the landing.

Tseng finds Indra in the kitchen.

‘Can’t sleep either?’ She asks, as she puts the kettle on.

Tseng says nothing.

‘I’m too used to the city, it’s too quiet here.’

‘I suppose Midgar has a certain charm.’ He thinks of the familiar rumble of the rail as it runs through the upper plate, the sound of sirens, and rotary blades.

When Indra offers to make him a cup of tea, he accepts, settles at the kitchen table and tries not to think of Rufus. Indra does not pry, nor offer platitudes, and Tseng appreciates her decidedly frank nature. Under different circumstances, she might have made a formidable Turk.

‘Chamomile.’ She passes him a china cup. ‘It’s supposed to help, but damn if it ever does.’

There’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Tseng expects to see Rufus, instead Farrell leans against the doorframe. He watches the way the two exchange smiles. Farrell tilts her head just so, Indra excuses herself and retreats back to their shared bedroom. Later Tseng swears he can hear their soft muffled cries. He returns to bed sometime before daylight, and when Rufus curls close, he wraps his arm around those fragile shoulders and thinks of how impossible it will be to ever say those words back.

Rufus rises earlier than usual, announces that they’re going sailing, and Tseng questions where exactly Rufus Shinra learned to sail. His father isn’t exactly the sporting type, and the waters near Midgar are all rife with monsters and the taint of pollution. Rufus offers him a razor edge smile, says he didn’t spend all of his time at university studying, and how it’s the one thing expected of privileged young men that he’s genuinely good at.

The Remora sits moored at the docks that extend past the shoreline. A magnificent sailboat in her day, another gift to Rufus’ mother in those early years where she’d sun herself in a white bikini along the bow, drinking icy glasses of champagne, and dining on briny oysters. His father was never much for sailing, but they had employed a captain once, many summers ago before Rufus was born. He keeps a photo in his penthouse of his mother smiling while perched on the pulpit, looking as glamorous as she did in any glossy Midgarian publication.

Indra laughs. ‘You know that name means it shouldn’t sail.’

‘My mother named it, something about the irony.’ It is a hideous name, but the Shinras aren’t known for doing things conventionally. Who would have expected an arms dealer from the Icicle Region might become the forefather of an empire. 

Rufus asks Tseng if he’s had much experience on the water. 

‘Not sailing, at least.’

‘I’ll have to teach you.’

The weather is near ideal conditions, the water calm, as a westerly wind blows, fluffy white clouds overheard offering a needed reprieve from the sunlight. It’ll storm later, Rufus thinks, as he stares out across the bow, so it’s best to play it safe and stay near the shoreline, find someplace to anchor, and enjoy the sea breeze, and champagne. Indra had the foresight to have their housekeeper pack them a picnic lunch, oysters and prawns, tins of caviar, fruits & cheeses, served with fresh loaves bought from a vendor in town.

Rufus calls Tseng over. ‘Watch me. It’s not that difficult.’ Points to the markers off on the horizon. ‘The reef makes these waters a bit precarious. But you already know that.’ They do training here, or so he’s heard, Veld talking once of a rookie they had lost when Rufus was younger. Tseng’s experience in these waters is not one of leisurely pursuits, but combat training, reconnaissance, and retrieval. Rufus knows a Shinra gunboat when he sees one. When Rufus instructs that he take the wheel, Tseng does. Rufus settles his arms around him, hands guiding. ‘I know you can navigate a boat, but feel the wind, the way it pulls at the sails.’ He leans in close, body pressed against Tseng’s back, the curve of his ass. ‘Focus on how she responds.’

When Rufus’ hand brushes over Tseng’s, he envisions a future together.

They drift about until mid-afternoon, Indra and Farrell luxuriating in the crystal waters. Rufus slips into the cabin with a glance, and doesn’t wait long for Tseng to follow. They settle against the plush cushions of the berth. Rufus sighs as Tseng kisses him, curls his legs about Tseng’s, and rocks into the sharp of his hip as lips trail along the line of his collar bone, the hollow of his throat. Rufus moans, hands gripping at the hardness pressing against Tseng’s trousers, and shifts positions until he is sitting in Tseng’s lap. ‘I heard you were up with Indra last night.’ His breath warm against the shell of Tseng’s ear. ‘Would you like to fuck her?’ Before he’s given an answer, Tseng seizes his mouth in a savage kiss.

‘She asked.’ Rufus admits as Tseng withdraws. ‘Wanted to know if I’d watch.’

‘Would you like to watch?’

‘Yes.’ Yes, he thinks he would. Tseng kisses him again until they are both breathless with need.

Rufus must admit it’s the most voyeuristic thing he’s ever agreed to. Some idea of Indra’s with her girlfriend’s permission. He’s always known she’s enjoyed her vices. It’s humid this night, a heaviness to the air from an evening storm, and the overhead fans seem to do little to mitigate the heat. They’re all a little high, a drug derived from Haste, enough to cause blissful euphoria for but a brief while. He watches as they settle along the rattan chaise. No kissing, Indra had said, and Rufus finds that to be a fair enough rule. Her hands brush against the buttons of Tseng’s shirt, and then along the front of his trousers. Farrell lounges nearby, she’s not one for anything stronger than weed, but she makes some sound of approval.

Rufus shifts, eyes intent on Indra’s movements, the way she slides the zipper down and withdraws a cock he loves so, and carefully rolls a condom on. It’s just sex, he reminds himself, just Tseng doing what he knows Tseng does, with someone Rufus trusts, and likes. She lifts her dress, revealing slender thighs, and then guides him inside. Tseng gasps, hands settling at her narrow waist to assist in giving them both leverage as they fuck, the sounds of flesh against flesh rising above the high whine of insects.

Rufus takes a sip of wine, pupils blown with lust and the drugs coursing through his veins.

There’s a moan then, Tseng lets out a cry and begins to fuck her harder. Hand sliding higher along her thigh; Rufus catches a glimpse of his cock inside her driving faster until both seize up. Tseng muffles a sound against her shoulder, thrusting up into that pliant heat until they’re both spent.

Indra stretches out beneath him, chest heaving from desire. ‘I see why you let him fuck you, I’d never want another cock.’

Rufus smiles a little, head buzzing, and moves to settle between them both. Indra presses a kiss to his cheek. ‘And everyone says Shinras are greedy.’ Rufus turns to Tseng then, and captures his mouth. He’s more than a little aroused, Indra may be a friend, and he’s certainly not one for pussy, but the two of them together, it makes him feel something that has nothing to do with the drugs. Tseng asks him if he wants to go someplace private where he can finish him off.

‘No. I just want to exist here for a while longer.’

Farrell is discussing something he can’t quite say he’s following, more talk about the planet, or whatever. It’ll get her killed, he thinks, if she keeps on this path without proper funding, without support. Who is he to care? She’s nothing more than another girl from the slums involving herself in matters that are far above her pay grade, but he’s developed a fondness, something in the way Indra looks at her, like she’s the most important person in the world. Their relationship is not quite public, Rufus has been the perfect cover, a way for both to conceal a clandestine romance, but Rufus knows that there is something uncomplicated about it all. Once Farrell is finished with her schooling, once she’s a doctor with a speciality in Mako research. He looks to Tseng, and understands that there is nothing about their relationship that is anything but impossible, the moment they were to be exposed, it would unravel. And yet.

He does another hit, and considers his options were he to make Shinra his.

After some time, Rufus retreats back inside, makes an excuse, but in truth the drugs are wearing off, and with them his amiable mood. It’s been a long day. He studies his reflection in the bathroom mirror, eyes red from the sea, pupils still a bit too wide. He looks through the medicine cabinet for something to help him sleep. Unwise he supposes to mix sedatives with what he’s coming down from, but his mind simply will not ease. The image of Tseng with Indra, the sounds. He shakes two pills into his hand and takes them with a glass of tepid water from the tap. He strips down, and slides into his robe. Let them have their fun, he thinks as he crosses the room to curl across the cool sheets.

The ceiling fan overhead buzzes in a fashion that is all rather maddening, but the night air is too warm to go without. Rufus twists. The insects, too, are deafening.

‘Rufus?’

He exhales.

‘Are you all right?’

He’s not certain, unused to the chemicals in his system, bone weary, yet restless. For a moment he thinks Tseng has gone, returned to whatever the others are still up to down on the veranda. He feels the shift of the mattress.

‘I thought I’d like it.’ Rufus admits, as he fusses idly with a loose thread on the cuff of his robe. ‘I’m not jealous--’ It’s not that. Tseng says his name. Rufus turns then, looks at him there before him, dark hair falling carelessly about his shoulders, nose tinged slightly pink from too much sun. ‘I just want you for myself. Maybe I am greedy, selfish, I just want you.’

Tseng settles beside him, reaches out to take his hand, threading their fingers together. ‘You know my job sometimes will make that impossible.’

‘I don’t want to be like my father. I don’t want anyone else to have me.’

The smile on Tseng’s face is a sad one, but understanding.

‘I suspect all of Midgar has some opinion on that, what I’m supposed to be, what is expected.’ Rufus glances away, suddenly vulnerable, exposed in a way that he dislikes even if this is Tseng. ‘I didn’t like it. I thought I would--’

‘It’s all right.’ Tseng presses a kiss to his brow, ‘I didn’t as much as I’d hoped either.’

Rufus gives him a small sliver of something that might be a smile. ‘Hold me. I don’t want anything except to feel you.’ Tseng nods, before pulling away to undress. Rufus makes a contented sound when he slides into bed, wrapping the thin sheets around them both. ‘I can’t stop trembling.’

‘It’s the Haste.’

‘You don’t seem terribly affected by it.’

‘My job sometimes requires a familiarity with this, too.’

Rufus makes a soft sound, and closes his eyes. With Tseng near, the cacophony in his head seems to quiet.

The following days pass languidly, afternoons by the pool, or the beach, trips into town. They share drinks as Indra and Farrell dance together one night. Rufus finds himself staring at Tseng in the candlelight as soft strains of acoustic guitar lilt about, the way his pulse quickens when Tseng takes a swallow of his cocktail, the casual placement of his hand against the tabletop, the way his eyes catch the light. He dearly wants to ask Tseng to dance, to hold him close and let their bodies move as one. He reaches out to take Tseng’s hand, protocol, caution be damned, when the persistent buzz of Tseng’s PHS interrupts his thoughts.

Tseng excuses himself, work. Rufus says nothing, knowing it’s Veld checking in. He’s acutely aware of the way the Director of Administrative Research likes to keep tabs on his agents in the field. Even if Tseng is on holiday, he’s still on duty. His gaze lingers on Tseng’s retreating form until he’s lost among the crowd. He waves down a waiter, and calls for another drink, something strong enough to make him forget who they both are.

When they return home late, Tseng does not join Rufus on the veranda for a nightcap. Indra and Farrell have stayed in town, some latest fancy of theirs, a handsome guitarist whom they’d taken a liking to while dancing. Rufus sits alone with a glass of madeira, and pensively sulks.

Tseng sits up alone tonight. Veld’s words echoing.  _ He trusts you as he once trusted me. _ It eats at him, the way Veld has played them both. He logs into the Turk’s database, for files on Rufus, going back further to those years before he joined their ranks, to a time when Rufus Shinra was little more than a child. He’s met with a flood of old photos, articles, personal correspondence, a drawing of Rufus with his mother, and father, surrounded by a few guardhounds, all smiling. The artistic ability is beyond what one might expect from a child, his knowledge of colour and light. Tseng is unsurprised that Rufus is an artist, another ability he’s hidden away, thinks of the small sketches found in the margins of reports. Tseng scans the old files. Veld kept every newspaper clipping, every public photograph, his school records. Rufus, barely 12 years old, staring stoically at his mother's memorial. There had been no viewing, the body mangled by the crash, the late Mrs Shinra had been identified by a diamond brooch, and a wisp of blonde hair. It was rumoured the President kept both on his person to this day. A graduation with no one there to cheer him on. An unanswered letter written to Veld during his time at university saying he had no right to expect anything, but he'd been one of the few to show him kindness. Veld had every opportunity to mold Rufus Shinra. 

Veld had known--known and still ordered this of Tseng.

Tseng closes the laptop, thinks of him there in his room, and what a pair they must make.

The following day passes without much notice, another afternoon by the pool, and when the sun climbs high, Rufus retires to his room to rest, too much champagne Tseng suspects. He does not join him, even if he wishes for nothing more than to watch him drift asleep in the soft afternoon light, as a sea breeze gently wafts through open windows.

Hours later, Tseng finds Rufus on the terrace, silhouetted against the setting sun. Says his name.

‘Care to join me for a drink?’ Rufus has a glass of something, Motril perhaps. Tseng declines, takes in the sight of him there, how beautiful he looks, gauzy white clothing tinged in purple shadows as the fading light catches on his nose, and high cheekbones.

‘Sir, we need to--’ Tseng hesitates, questions if he can do this to Rufus, now.  _ He just likes to be fucked. _ He regrets those words, the callousness and cruelty of them. But if he does not end this, Veld will destroy whatever they have. At least now they might still keep their memories, their dream of a future where they would rule Shinra together. ‘I’m requesting reassignment upon our return.’

'Excuse me?'

'You've had your fun, now let me return to my duty.' The words sound wrong, as if his lips have twisted them into something hideous. The indignation on Rufus’ face morphs. 'How long do you think this would last, Sir?'

'I thought you liked me.' Rufus looks uncommonly naive, and for one agonizing moment Tseng thinks to let him have his way.

'I remembered my place in this world. It's time you do the same.'

There's the slam of a door, the crash of what Tseng suspects is a vase, or lamp, and then silence. Deathly in its stillness.

Tseng goes into town, finds a local boy to kiss, with sweet lips, who crawls into his lap when they've had too much to drink, and then sucks him off in an alleyway while Tseng stares up at the starlight above.

It is late when Tseng returns. He expects to find Rufus on the veranda well into a bottle. Instead the bedroom door is shut, he suspects if he were to check, it would be locked. He cannot fault Rufus for shutting him out, what he has done is a necessary cruelty. How very much Tseng will miss his companionship.

He steps outside.

'He used to do this, when he was a child.' Indra is perched on the rail wearing nothing but a pair of silken tap pants, a smouldering joint dangling from tapered fingers, each nail lacquered to perfection. 'Did he never tell you?' She makes a soft sound that suggests she's unsurprised and takes another hit. 'Guess he never really told you anything.' She offers him the joint, watches as he takes a long inhale.

Rufus emerges 16 hours later. Tseng sees a reflection of that boy he'd met some years before on the roof, one who he suspects he inconvenienced enough to make him reconsider jumping. Considers now how he is the one to have reduced him to this. Rufus says nothing when he passes. Tseng does not follow.

Indra is poolside, she beckons Tseng. 'I don't have to tell you how much his father has broken him. He puts on a good charade, but I keep waiting till he slips the wrong pills into his champagne. He sometimes talks of the stir it'd create.'

The words settle as a low ache in his chest. Rufus is spoiled, beautiful, possessing an unfathomable privilege.

'I'm happy to live in a gilded cage, Tseng. My daddy loves me, mother too.' She casts a glance to Rufus. 'I don't know if anyone loves him.'

Rufus sits alone, Indra and Farrell spending this final evening in town dancing and drinking. He chokes down the Motril, and wishes to not think of Tseng as the moon rises above the horizon, casting the waves in silvery light as off in the distance thunder rumbles low. The mournful wail of the buoy carries on the breeze, and somewhere a cruise ship sounds her horn. In the morning, they'll leave this place. Return to the ever present gloom of Midgar, his city,  _ their _ city. It seems a hollow fancy now, to have promised a Turk this future alongside him, as equals, lovers, companions.

There's a knock.

Rufus turns away, light hair tumbling into his eyes. 'I thought you'd have left.' There is no cruelty in his voice, words even, controlled, cold.

There is a hesitation. 'I am still assigned to you, Sir.'

'Of course.'

'I'll request Veld officially relieve me once we're back.'

'See to it.'

Tseng lingers. Rufus wants to order him to leave, to go find someone else to fuck, and fuck with. Instead he stands there, staring out across the dark water. Off shore the sky lights up with a flash of lighting. Fitting he thinks. And then there are hands resting on his shoulders, sliding along his forearms, Tseng’s taking his own, guiding it down until it rests between his legs. There’s the silken slide of cool dark hair along his neck, and cheek. ‘Forgive me.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s complicated.’ Tseng’s breath is warm against his ear. ‘I wish for nothing but to have you. But I can’t. Not now, not--’

‘Yet.’ Rufus leans into the touch, the curve of his ass flush against the jutting hardness in Tseng’s trousers. Lips brush against his jawline, and Rufus knows he’s lost. The hand that grips his cock is warm. He sighs, and whispers please.

Tseng asks him to have this, this one final memory of them before they must give one another up and captures his mouth in a brutal kiss. They fuck against the railing as storm clouds begin to roll in off the ocean, Rufus legs wrapped around Tseng’s slim hips, arching and crying with each thrust of Tseng’s cock. Tseng holds him close as he shudders and moans, body quaking with pleasure. Feels the warm rush of Tseng’s release inside. Rufus lowers his head against Tseng’s shoulder, and wishes to ask him to stay. Instead, he tells him to go. Now. Please.

He’ll remember later how Tseng never kissed him goodbye.

When they return the following evening, Midgar has already been plunged into darkness, the glowing green clouds from the city's 8 reactors billowing into the skies. Rufus says nothing as he makes his way back to his penthouse. He has his schedule to rearrange, some meeting with his father in two days, and one with Tuesti over a gala to fund a reclamation project in Sector 4. He passes Veld, the Director having made a personal trip to the Executive levels to see to his Turk’s return. Fitting. Rufus doesn’t spare him a glance when he asks if he’s had a pleasant holiday abroad.

The stillness of his apartment is unwelcoming, the air colder than usual from his days of absence, and it smells strongly of floor cleaner, and wood varnish. A vase of fresh white lilies sits nearby. He sweeps them up, and discards them in the waste bin. Vile flowers, with their persistent reek of slow decay, worse than any of the stench from the city's reactors. He makes himself a drink, then another, thinks of Tseng, the lines of his body silhouetted against the night sky, the scent of his cologne, and taste of his lips, the feel of his cock, and the words they had shared in secret. The glass explodes into thousands of crystalline shards all across the white marble floor. Rufus lowers his head and pretends to not remember how to cry.

One evening some weeks later, Rufus Shinra sits at his desk, looks out across the city that one day will be his, and considers his options. If he is to be used and neglected by those who serve Shinra, then he will take what is his, by force, by any means possible. And then, perhaps there will no longer be need for this miserable charade. He reaches for the phone. A familiar voice greets him across the line. He smiles. 'I wanted to see if you'd join me for drinks, I'm quite interested in your  _ work _ , Miss Harvey. I think I’ve found your organization a name.'

_ Fin _


End file.
